


The Gift

by elderwitty



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-27
Updated: 2012-04-22
Packaged: 2017-10-20 18:36:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/215874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elderwitty/pseuds/elderwitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not your usual after hunt occurrence.</p>
<p>Set after Season Two.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: None of it’s mine, including the plot. Darn bunnies steered it where they would - I had no control. It was like trying to turn a cruise ship with a row boat while tilting at windmills, so I gave up and just typed what they told me. I did come up with “68.”
> 
> reading had beta duties, and a fabulous job she did. She made this clearer, deeper, and better than I could’ve hoped to do in a million tries on my own. Thanks, reading.
> 
> This was written in a somewhat experimental style, in which the POV changes frequently. It's not noted who's talking, because I have confidence that y'all are plenty smart, and can infer it from the text.

When they race into the alley chasing her screams they find her trying to fight off the spirit with an articulated skeleton. Turns out she was rescuing it from the dumpster where the office jerk had thrown it.

“Why? It’s not like you know whose bones they were.”

“Even so, it’s disrespectful.” Can’t argue with that.

Right after that she starts hyperventilating and Sam has that soft spot so it’s all his doing she ends up back at the motel to process and recover from the discovery that shit is real and it’s out there and sometimes it’s after you.

The skeleton rides back in the trunk.

“Do you have family to go to?” “Not here in town.”

“Work friends?” “Just acquaintances.”

“Friend friends?” “Not really. I just moved here a few months ago.”

They send her to wash her face and hopefully calm down some more, and discuss what to do with her. Too late to stop it they see her leave the bathroom and collapse white-faced and fully dressed onto the middle of the bed. The only bed – the motel had only had single king rooms left.

Whatever. It’s late, she’s out, and they’re tired. They’ll take her home in the morning. Dean takes the door side as usual, leaving Sam to face her…and take off at least her shoes.

**20 minutes later**  
‘Just lay quietly & sleep will come,’ lied Dr. Lying-Fucker, MD. If only my head would stop throbbing, or spinning, I could fall asleep for real and get rid of this headache--god that thing was real--who are these guys--how the hell am I ever going outside again--fucking headache--hey, they smell good--fucking brain twirl--the tall one’s watching me, I know it-- calm down--breathe--in--out--concentrate--relax--stop THINKING, go to sleep, and ditch the headache. _Fucking brain twirl!_  
So, okay, not gonna sleep, maybe ever again-let’s SNAP the eyes open and catch him looking. Damn, he’s right there! See the startled guilty blink and smile to say – _it’s okay_.  
Quick frown and a glance at my forehead – _Headache?_  
Blink, nod and rueful smile – Oh, yeah. Raised eyebrows and tilted head – _You, too?_  
Resigned nod and almost shrug – _Latest in a long line._  
Grimace and sympathetic look – _Sorry to hear._  
A glance shot over my shoulder - _?_  
Furrowed brow and confused look – _Huh?_  
Same glance, eyebrows peak and mischievous glint – _Wanna mess with him?_  
Slow smile and mirror mischief – _Love to._

Odd doing the wordless thing with someone I just met. Dean needs payback for that bucket of cold water ‘training exercise’ and it might distract from our headaches. I see her grin fade and watch perplexed as everything she has goes still and slack. Maybe the wires got crossed. I thought she knew what I meant-no, there she goes. Turning over to Dean, cheek to shoulder, knee to hip, arm thrown not even a little gently across his stomach and arms. No way he sleeps through that or lets it slide.

Ugh! What the hell? The chick is grabby. Understandable, but not allowed. I nudge her with my forearm, trapped between our bodies and her total lack of boundaries. No response. Again, a little harder. “Mmngh.” “Hey, you’re on me.” Nothing. What the hell? Nudge again. “Mmngh?” “You can’t be on my arms-I need them.” One eye cracks opens to assess the situation, then closes again as she moves her hand...about time. To my shoulder. Damn it!

Oh, my god, she’s playing him perfectly. When he finally convinces her to back up she whispers something.

With my newly freed right hand I give a good poke in the ribs-“Hey.” “Wha?” “Get off me.” As she rocks up to scoot back hip and then shoulder she mutters, “such a baby,” and backs off about four inches.

What did she say? He looks shocked. She’s on her right side, her back to me, slightly curled, hands at her face.

I look over at a familiar scene with a new player; elbow braced on bed, line of arm leading up to heel of hand pressed against bridge of nose, palm and fingers splayed upward into hair. Headache. Add to this right hand clutching left wrist, tight enough to whiten the skin on either side of her ring. Shit. Headache; seeking comfort & protection. And I kicked the puppy. At least Sammy didn’t see it.

Don’t move. Don’t laugh. How is she making him look so guilty and almost ashamed? She’s just lying there.

I reach out and touch her shoulder – she jerks back, nearly hitting Sam, “What?! I’m not touching you.” “C’mere,” I say. “What?” “Come here,” grasping her wrist and pulling her over to me. No scooting, so she’s almost flat on her stomach; her left side aligned with mine, her arm now across my chest and shoulder, not quite a hug. Her face in my neck as she relaxes and sleepily whispers, “I said it wrong.” She’s not my type; I like them taller, younger, skinnier- but we’re connected along the length of our bodies and breasts on my arm and chest are always good, so I’m not fully listening. “I meant ‘babe’.” I freeze. She’s a pervy older chick and she’s all over me. I tense to throw her off, then feel/hear a low rumbling – she’s laughing! All slow and wicked; lifting her head and looking right at me now, “You are _so_ easy,” before lying back down into the curve of my neck.

Dean’s gone still. She laughs and says, “You are _so_ easy,” and he gets even more tense as she settles back in. What was I thinking? I don’t know her. This is going so very wrong and I’m gonna catch hell for it. Now she’s asking if he wants her off him. Good call. She shifts and leans in closer yet to whisper something I can’t catch even a corner of.

“I guess you want me off now?” Smart girl. She starts to move, then leans in so close I feel her nose bend against my skull as she breathes, “Tough,” into my ear. She threads her right arm under my neck and makes herself comfortable. Her front now pressed all along my side, left hand _petting_ my hair and ending up just behind my right ear. Her thumb keeps stroking my hair - with the grain, against- and it’s so hypnotic I stop thinking about kicking her ass. All she’s doing is touching me – human contact not resulting from fighting or fucking or damage repair, and it’s been so long that I can’t remember when it last happened.

Fuck. She’s the Dean whisperer.


	2. Chapter 2

**2 hours later**

Hmnh? He’s nudging me. I’ll start petting again. “Mm, soft.” Man, he likes to nudge. 

“Hey, move.” 

“Huh?” It’s all the sense I can make after so little sleep.

Suddenly I’m flipped onto my back and held down. “HEY!” in anger (panic), pushing his chest and grabbing his arm, ready to scratch his eyes and kick and run - but catch his worried face and turn to see. The tall one is twisting and looks to be in pain. Still with the headache? 

Back to worry and fearing helplessness. “Sammy, wake up,” shaking him. 

Tall one is Sammy – check. 

Trapped under the other what can I do? I reach for Sammy’s right hand and hold it. Human contact is always good, right? Slowing down and waking up he pulls away to rub his forehead. I try the silent thing; brows up and forehead forward – _Are you okay?_ , then realize he doesn’t want some random woman staring at him. Drop my eyes and turn away ‘I’m not here, I didn’t see, no need to be embarrassed’ to let him get his equilibrium back. A slight rasp against stubble makes me shiver.

Feel the bed shift as he gets up, catch a glimpse as he passes and track him until he closes the bathroom door and we lose most of the light. Switch my gaze to the one still on top of me. He’s looking at me like I’m a bug on a slide; a curiosity. He rolls off and watches the bathroom door. He looks like a worried guard dog, poor guy. Crap! He doesn’t want me staring at him either. I join the door vigil before asking, “That happen a lot?” Careful to let him face me before I focus on him.  
\---------------------------------------------

Dean sighs. That was a bad one – nightmare, vision, whichever. And just what Sam needs, this chick to label him “freak” and look away like he’s a leper. Sammy heads into the bathroom to pull himself together without an audience and I turn to give her an earful but she’s watching him go, eyes full of concern and sympathy. What the hell? Now she’s looking at me and I realize I still have her pinned. I roll off to watch for Sam’s reemergence. “That happen a lot?” She’s staring at the bathroom door like it’s covered in feathers before she meets my eyes. 

“More often recently.”

“Do you know why?” I consider how much to tell this almost total stranger. 

Something about sharing a pillow in the almost dark must breed confession, ‘cause even though I don’t get personal with the people we help, I hear myself saying, “He has visions.” I watch expressions chase across her face – surprise, doubt, cynicism, worry and wonder – before she mouths, “Wow.” I give her a moment. 

“His whole life?” 

Shaking my head, “Just the past year.”

She scoffs, a small smile in place and says, “Right. ‘Cause your life wasn’t hard enough already.” 

Who is this chick and where does she get off looking down on us? “What would you know about it?” Flat, not friendly. She blinks and disappears; no longer a person interacting but a mask, impersonal and impregnable. 

She looks down, then says, “I know it sucks.” 

“What?” I expect her to glare when she meets my eyes again, but she isn’t angry; just resigned as she starts reciting facts that should be obvious to all. I hear her counting the ways and things our life lacks and realize I was wrong. She wasn’t judging us – she was seeing us.

I’m not sure which is worse.  
\---------------------------------------------

I hear them talking while I’m drying my face and hands. A low murmur, can’t make out the words. I open the door in time to hear “--t would you know about it?” in the voice that usually announces a bar fight. Her half-smile disappears as she freezes like a startled animal. She drops her gaze and lowers her head, a courtier showing submission to the king. She’s so tense I’m not even sure she’s breathing until I hear, “I know it sucks,” in a matter of fact voice. Not cowed then, just regrouping.

She lifts her chin to lock eyes with Dean and continues, “It can’t pay much – you’re living in a shit motel. I’m betting not a lot of gratitude either. People just aren’t thankful when you rip their blinders off. Always on the road. No home base. No home. Never enough rest, ‘specially when you’re hurt. No security. No one who understands, ‘cept him,” flicking a glance at me. “Can’t ever really relax. Certainly can’t trust people.”

What, another psychic? There’s no way she could peg all that from knowing us, what, three hours? Two of which we slept. I can see Dean’s thinking the same thing. “You’re right. I don’t know the first damn thing about it. But I can imagine.” Dean opens his mouth, either to apologize or accuse her of being a witch, but she stops him with, “I need my arm.” That he’s lying on. From while she was petting him into a pleasure coma. Yeah, no one can say ‘Thank you’ like Dean Winchester.  
\---------------------------------------------

He lifts his head enough for me to slide my arm from under his neck. I drop it onto the pillow between us, forearm elled above my head, and close my eyes to create some privacy, some distance. I know the tall… Sammy…can see my face from the doorway, so I concentrate on keeping my breathing deep and regular. I’ve exposed myself to enough ridicule for one night. I stupidly thought it’d be different this time, especially after they helped me with the skeleton, and the silent…whatever – thing with Sammy, before, but it seems like it’s starting again already.

I feel him shift and hear, “Look..” 

I cut him off with a tired flip of my hand– I don’t expect or need any half-assed apology. “Don’t. I get it. You’re worried and you’re stressing, it just slipped out, you didn’t mean to snap at me. Don’t worry, I’m fine.”  
\---------------------------------------------

She’s not. Her face has the particular blankness that comes with massive effort to conceal the need to either cry or run the hell away. 

“Dean, I was gone for two minutes. What did you do?”  
\---------------------------------------------

Mean one is Dean—check.  
\---------------------------------------------

 _“Me?”_ Wha-? Why does Sam always assume _I_ did something? “Lucy Librarian here is the one who went all leper judgey on you, then started acting like we’re old buddies and she knows something about our life.” 

“I’d say she has a good idea, Dean, and what does _leper judgey_ even mean?” 

“Sam, you didn’t see how she looked at you, like…” 

“Y-You know I can hear you, right? And I’m _not_ a librarian,” without opening her eyes. 

“Well, you look like one; a spinster librarian.” 

“Dean!” Why’s Sam so surprised I’m defending him? It’s not like I haven’t done it before, a million times.

That gets a reaction, anyway – she’s rolling away and muttering, “That was fast,” pulling something from under her as she settles in on her left side. 

“Holy crap! Where did all that come from?!” Her hair is down to her waist at least. 

Sarcastically, “Uh, librarian hair bun, maybe?” 

“Damn, that’s gotta be more trouble than it’s worth… no point in hair longer than shoulder length.” 

“Uh, o-kaay.” she says, in the vocal version of backing away slowly. 

“And I _better_ not roll on the clip.” Sighing, she reaches into her neckline and pulls out a barrette, holding it up briefly before tucking it back away. Huh. I’ve never seen that used as storage before. “What else do you have in there?” 

“Dean!” Sammy Hall Monitor, always on the job.

Silently, she pulls out the clip again and transfers it to her left hand. It’s joined by a tissue, a $20 bill, and a driver’s license, which I take.

“Give that back!” twisting around and grabbing for it. 

Angling it toward the light – “Millicent?” No wonder she didn’t want that to get out. 

Sighing and annoyed, “Yes, Millicent. And you can’t say anything I’ve never heard. Can I have it back now?” 

Handing it over, “Wow, just born and your parents didn’t like you already,” not sure what it is about this chick that makes me keep saying stuff like that. 

Tiredly, “Yeah. Just proves how smart they were. It takes most people longer.” She tucks the license back in and turns away and, wow, now I really feel like a puppy stomping jackass. 

“Dean, what is _wrong_ with you?”


	3. Chapter 3

_Something_ is very wrong. ‘Cause, yeah, Dean can be mocking…and cutting…and sarcastic. But he’s not mean; not usually and never without provocation. Now he knows he’s in the wrong, and he’s ready to handle it his usual way – dig in deeper and douse it in gasoline. But he also looks confused, like he’s not quite sure what’s going on either. Time to play peacemaker. Motioning him to be quiet I walk around to my side of the bed.

“Millicent?” 

“Lee.” And, “Sorry,” when she realizes I have no room. Scoots back far enough to make space but careful not to touch Dean at any point. It’s kind of impressive – done without looking. I get comfortable, and then ask if she’s alright. 

“I’m fine, thanks,” but she looks tired and sounds resigned. 

“Lee, I can see that you’re not.” She flinches down and goes still, not even breathing. Ten long seconds later, she looks up again; past me and at the nightstand, searching for something.

Down at the pillow, then back to me. “I am as fine as it’s possible for me to be.” A rueful smile. “And the amount I’m not -- Is nothing to do with you guys. So you don’t have to worry about it, ‘kay?”

“Maybe we can help.”

A soft snort and disillusioned smile – she’s heard that before. “You can’t fix it. It can’t _be_ fixed. So I’m gonna ignore it,” closing her eyes, but not before I see the shine of tears.

Nothing like a challenge. “How do you know unless you tell us? You don’t know what we can do.” Apparently she’s ignoring it and me both now. “I know you’re listening and I promise we won’t laugh – whatever it is. C’mon.”

“He’s relentless. He won’t stop, so you might as tell him,” Dean volunteers. Thanks. I think.  
\---------------------------------------------

With a sigh (and who knew Sam had a rival in the “put-upon sigh” division?), she says, “I was raised by wolves.” What the hell? I sit up and start a mental weapons inventory. Real wolves, werewolves, what? Is that even possible? She looks at me, and I see a gleam of humor in her eyes. Another scoff, “Two-legged.” Rolling her eyes back to Sam, “Human. “ Barely a breath, “Still.” Sam looks ‘be patient’ at me. I shoot back, ‘wolves?!’

“I wasn’t properly socialized as a child.” She pauses, staring a thousand yards through Sam’s chest. “68.” Random. 

“What?” in stereo. 

“I said I moved here a few months ago – more like 68.” Wait, she’s made no friends in over five years? Actually, that sounds about right, if she’s always this judgmental and annoying. 

“Why? Are you demented or a thief or something?” 

“Dean!” 

“No, though I’ve been accused of thieving; along with trying to steal boyfriends and deliberately breaking stuff. I have no problem _making_ friends, but something always happens to sour it.” She’s looking at Sam like he’s her last hope, “Are curses real?” Then, so softly that I can barely make out more than the c’s and t’s and s’s, “‘Cause I’m starting to think I’m cursed.”   
\---------------------------------------------

I can’t believe how stupid that sounds out loud, but Sammy just looks thoughtful. I can almost hear wheels turning behind me, too. “When did it start?” “Not ‘properly socialized’ how?” No unison this time. They exchange glances while I look from one to the other, and I can’t help smiling. They both think they’re in charge.

Sammy first. “It’s been going on as long as I can remember. As for socialization, my mom was way over-protective. Too sunny, too cold, windy, rainy, whatever; there was always a reason to keep me home instead of going to the playground. We moved around a lot, that didn’t help. New kids don’t fit any clique, so I mostly kept to myself. When I didn’t, it was like I had the wrong rule book – something always pissed them off and drove them away.”

“And after a while you stopped trying,” Mean Dean says in what I’d accept as a sympathetic tone from anyone else.

“Yeah. Why have the hassle again? So I have lots of acquaintances instead. That’s enough, right?”

Sammy shoots a look at Dean that I can’t interpret and says, “No.”

Great. Now I feel better.  
\---------------------------------------------

“Nice. Way to make her feel better, Sam.” I thought he was supposed to be the one with all the people skills. He might as well have slapped her, from the look on her face. And what’s with the holding her breath? That can’t be good for the brain cells.

“You want me to lie, Dean? Friends are better. Don’t worry, Lee, if it’s a curse we’ll do what we can to fix it.” 

“And what if it’s not a curse? What if it’s just me?” 

People skills fully re-engaged, Sam assures her, “It’s definitely _not_ you.” 

“How can you be so sure?” even as she relaxes slightly.

Giving her the full Sammy grin, “We wouldn’t have slept with you otherwise. We have very good taste. Or, I do, anyway.” Blush is a good color on her, I notice as I start thinking about how Sam’s gonna pay for that last remark.  
\---------------------------------------------

I’m not sure which is funnier, the blush on her face or the look on Dean’s. He’s plotting already; I’m gonna have to watch my back. “Hey!” she interjects. “What about your vision?” I’m pretty sure my mouth is hanging open as I stare at Dean. He told her – a complete stranger? 

And then went off on her. 

And is now being protective. 

_Something_ is going on here. Maybe a curse isn’t all that far off. “It was just a nightmare; nothing to worry about. Um, we’re not going to sleep, right? Let’s go get some food and try to figure this out.”

“I hope y’all like tuna casserole. Oh, and we’ll have to stop if you want beer. You look like beer guys.” Dean, getting up, looks a little mutinous at her assumption that we’re going home with her, but relaxes when she follows up with, “Or I could thaw out some steaks. I know it’s presumptuous, but I reek, and home is where the shower is. And the clean clothes. _And the steak_.” OK, she absolutely has Dean’s number.

“Baked potatoes?” Dean asks as he disappears into the bathroom. 

“Sure. How many ya want?” turning to me with a smile that morphs into a yawn. “Sorry. Sour cream?” And, “OK, it’s on the shopping list,” at my nod. 

As I stand up and grab a clean shirt I see her eyes are shut. “Hey, get up – we’re going.” 

“Hey, dude, fully dressed. Just need shoes.” 

“So get ‘em.” 

“C’mon, Ma, five more minutes. They’re slip-ons.” 

The unexpected laugh comes out mostly as snort. She’s pretty chipper for someone getting emotional whiplash from Dean. “OK, but only five – no more. Got it?” 

She burrows into the pillow with a sigh and a smile, “Best Mom _ever_.”

CRASH!!


	4. Chapter 4

Sam’s gawping at me. Whatever, I’m not sure why I told her either. Does it matter? Hm? Oh, food, yeah, but first things first. She’s making plans to head for home and tuna when she spots my sneer. Tuna casserole is not real food. “Or steak.” And justifying it with shower talk, which is only right. It’s not the worst thing I’ve ever smelled in my life, by far, but it doesn’t belong in bed. “Baked potatoes?” I ask, just before I close the door, so I don’t see her grin but I can hear it as she asks how many.

Business finished, I open up just in time to hear her call Sam the best mom ever. She almost comes out of her skin when the door slams against the wall, she spins around so fast. She’s only startled until I growl, “What did you say?”, then confusion creeps in. 

“I was just messing around with Sammy.” God, how I hate that whiny defensive tone. I know she can see it, too, ‘cause now she’s scared, especially when I start toward her.

Sam takes a step forward, “Hey,” hands up, palms out and fingers spread, always the ambassador. I see recognition in her, fighting with disbelief, then shifting into horror as I draw back… “DEAN!” Sam sounds as freaked out as I feel. _What the hell is going on?_ “I’m out,” grabbing my coat and going.  
\---------------------------------------------

Holy Crap! I’d scream if I could catch my breath. I expect to see a car coming through the wall, but it’s…Dean, driving the doorknob into the drywall and asking what I just said. Should I be worried? “Just messing with Sammy,” and that was NOT the right answer and YES, I should be scared, he’s heading this way.

I hear Sammy, “Hey,” placating, but I’m not taking my eyes off the psycho in front of me. I haven’t seen anyone this mad since… _ohmygoditcan’tbe_. How? Everything freezes and I’m in the past, trapped and hearing, “Dean!” from a continent away. Now he’s just him and now he’s gone, but I still can’t move or breathe until Sammy sits down next to me. I grab him for sanity and, I mean, I clutch at him like a drowning sailor. “Mom.” Watching the door in case he comes back.

“What?” 

“That? Was my mom. He was my mom. How can that be?’

“Has she done this before, controlled someone like this? Do you know where she practices? An altar or...”

“What? No. She died twenty years ago.”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“Uh, what? Twenty years ago, what do you think?” One of us is losing our mind. Please, please let it be me.  
\---------------------------------------------

This is bad.

Dean’s looking at her like she just keyed the Impala. What’s it matter what we were talking about? Oh, “Hey,” let’s just calm down now. What the…he’s not going to…he wouldn’t hit….

“DEAN!” A harsh crack of sound, as loud and sharp as I can make it. As he lowers his hand and straightens up, I can see confusion and remorse, but still a lot of anger. He looks at Lee for a moment with no change of expression, then grabs his jacket and leaves. I can’t even chase after him to see if it’s just lack of sleep and coffee making him so short-tempered. The weapons duffle is sitting in the corner and I’m not leaving a civilian alone with it.

She’s not moving and I think she’s not-breathing again. The Dean I just saw disturbed _me_ , and I trust him with my life. Softly, so as not to scare her further, “Lee.” No response. Again, sidling closer and reaching out. Nothing. I sit beside her on the bed and gasp when she grabs my arm, sensible nails digging in almost enough to draw blood.

“Mom,” the merest whisper, never looking away from the forest green door’s evacuation plan placard.

“What?”

“My mom. He was my mom. How can that be?”

It’s suddenly clear. The accusations and lost friendships, Dean’s mood swings, everything. Her mother has been controlling all of them, all this time. We just have to figure out how and stop her.

And – she’s been dead twenty years. That complicates things. ‘Cause, ‘Hey, Lee, we need to go salt and burn your mom’s corpse’ probably isn’t going to go over too well right now. Yeah, I’ll hold off on that for a bit.

She’s freaking out, and why not? First thing is calm her down and get her fingernails out of my arm. “Lee,” but all her focus is still on the door. Working my fingers under hers, “Lee, you’re digging in a little. It’s OK, you can let go now.” She’s not hearing me and I’m not sure what she’s seeing, but I doubt it’s the door her eyes are fixed on. She doesn’t seem to notice when I finally pry her hand off, just curls it into a fist at her side.

“Lee, I need to ask you some questions.” I try to turn her to face me but she pulls away to keep watch on the door. “Lee.” Again, same result. Okay, if gently won’t work. I grasp her chin and exert firm pressure. “Lee, do you doubt that I can _make_ you look at me?” She says nothing, but stops resisting. “Thank you. I need you to help me figure out how your mom is doing this.” Nothing. “Lee, we can help you stop all this if you just trust me.” Her focus shifts to something beside my left ear, shutting me out of the equation while she considers.

“Ask your questions,” eyes flitting back to mine with absolutely no trust in them.

“How did your mom die?” 

“Killed herself.” No emotion, just stating a fact.

“How?”

“Car, in the garage.” Never looking away, not blinking. Daring me to…I don’t know what.

“Did she have a history of mental illness?” 

“No,” quickly, but then a flicker of uncertainty, “Not diagnosed, anyway…. maybe. I don’t know.”

“What about your dad?” She goes totally still and I feel her withdraw without moving a muscle. 

“He left.” Her complete lack of inflection lets me know just how deeply that cut. 

“Because of how she…?” 

Shaking her head, “Long before - long time ago.” 

“How did she handle it?” 

“A little bit of Miss Havisham.” 

I give her an eyebrow, “And that doesn’t constitute mental illness?” 

“No, you don’t understand; this is the _South_. People are allowed to be eccentric, ‘specially if it’s just one thing.” 

“What one thing?” 

Hesitantly, “She’d…buy him stuff. Suits. Birthday gifts, anniversary presents. Sometimes… she’d…go out to dinner with him.” 

Both eyebrows now, “By herself?” 

“By herself.” 

“And people would play along, like he was there with her?” 

Nod and a shrug, “They were….being kind.” 

“That doesn’t mean it wasn’t the worst thing they could have done.” 

“I know,” shaking her head. “But she didn’t want to hear it. Especially from one voice of reason in a whole town of playin’ along. So I disagreed and she…” her eyes slip closed and a wave of pain flashes across her face, “disapproved.” 

“How?” 

Haunted eyes suddenly boring into mine, “Strongly.” 

“I’m sorry, Lee. But I need to know, how exactly?” hating it, but knowing the necessity.

“Why does it matter? She’s been gone twenty years…what _possible_ difference could it make?” I don’t say anything - there’s nothing to say. We both know she’s going to tell me. This is just giving herself time to get used to the idea.

Finally, sighing, “Lock me in my room. Talk to me through the door. How I didn’t understand, would never understand what it’s like. To have someone so perfect – best friend and love all in one. How I’d never find that, never have anybody like she had him.” A slight, bitter laugh. “Of course, I always had to point out that she _didn’t_ have him – he left and all she had was _me_.” A deep breath and an audible swallow, “Which made her furious.”

She‘s staring out into the distance again, with what looks like regret, “Which was my intention exactly.” A brief bout of the not-breathing, which I now get is her way of holding onto her composure. Twice she opens her mouth and twice has to close it again before she manages to rasp out, “So, when she’d say I was such a horrible person that I’d never have any of it, it was sorta partially my fault.” 

“Lee, no. It wasn’t.” No reaction – I’m not even sure she heard me.

“And when she set the house on fire and left, she blamed that on me, too.”


	5. Chapter 5

What the hell was that? ‘Cause I don’t hit chicks. Well, okay, a possessed chick, sure. Or armed. A biker chick once, but she was giant, probably Russian. Pretty sure she had a knife, too. But I don’t hit chicks from any category this sad, soft, weak woman would find herself in. Wait - weak? Climbing into a dumpster to rescue bones she didn’t know for the principle of it? Not weak. I liked it, and her for doing it. The grabby part started off annoying, but the petting after? Fantastic. So what changed?

Well, she was judgmental. No, I thought it was judgment. The hair - what do I care? There’s plenty of uses for really long hair. Calling Sam mom – was pretty funny, actually. So why the overreaction? Why any reaction at all?

And she didn’t seem surprised. At all. Or resist when I made her empty her bra. Or react to any of my sarcastic… fine, okay - mean comments. Like it’d happened before, many times. Just like she described.

Shit.

Whatever ‘it’ is - I’ve got it. Suddenly, I realize… Crap, I left Sam with her. But he didn’t seem affected, even stopped me from smacking h... _Jesus_. I was _gonna_ hit her. What the hell?! Okay, okay, think. Not proximity, ‘cause Sam’s fine. Not permanent, ‘cause I’m over it now. I think. Nope, no urge to hit her. Not a demon – couldn’t have come in over the salt. Same for ghosts - besides spirits don’t smell of _dumpster_. Werewolf? Moon’s in the wrong phase. What, then? It’s either a curse or she’s putting the whammy on people. Dammit. I need more info on this chick.  
\---------------------------------------------

“And when she set the house on fire and left, she blamed that on me, too.” 

“What?” I look up to see his shocked expression. I’m glad he’s shocked. I can’t fully believe…or maybe don’t want to. And I was there.

I really don’t want to spill my secrets to this guy, nice as he seems, but my mouth didn’t get that memo. _And who knows_ , maybe he _can_ help. Wow, I  am bitter and cynical. 

“I was at the diner. When the fire truck went by. A bunch of us followed to see if we could help. And, y’know, watch, ‘cause - small town. Boring. We were on my street. My block.” The feeling of disbelief as fresh as ever in my mouth. “ _My_ house…was on fire. And, _Mom_! And I’m running, ‘cause they can get her out if they know she’s sitting in the hall by my door. But…it’s **burning** , and now I get that phrase, ‘like a house a-fire’, ‘cause… And there’s no way. And I can’t breathe. But, oh.” The relief still sharp as new, too. “Thank god. She’s out, she’s OK and talking to the fire guy.”

Smile as I share the last purely happy moment I remember. “I can see her, in her good coat and checked slacks; waving her arms, frantic, yelling at him, ‘She pushed me out and said she was sorry. She locked the door and I couldn’t get in.’”

I furrow my brow in remembered puzzlement and invite him to join in mocking my stupidity. “I couldn’t figure out who she was talking about. The neighbors stopped visiting a while ago. Then fire guy, who’s Carl, actually, saw me and pointed. She turned.” Just as clear as her fur-collared coat, I can see her expression. “She was shocked. And _pissed_. Just for a flash. Then relieved and happy and hugging and all ‘Sorry, I had to tell…’ But. I _saw_ it.”

“What did you do?” 

“I got arrested.” 

“What?!” 

I bark a quick laugh at his shock. “Oh, yeah. For burning down the house.” _And now I have that song in my head_. “Took me to the sheriff’s, put me in a room. Took turns asking. Why? What I hoped to gain? Didn’t I know she could have been hurt? How do I think she feels now? Back to why - always why.” My throat clutches shut, and I have to push to say, “I couldn’t tell ‘em. I couldn’t say it.”

I realize suddenly that he’s rubbing my arm in slow, calming strokes. It’s nice, almost hypnotic. And his continued silent sympathy both allows and compels me to continue.

“Finally, took me back to a cell and left me alone. Said call when I was ready to talk and they’d do what they could for me. After a while a doctor came. Said, no reason I couldn’t talk - guilt, maybe. Made sure I heard him. 

“Fire investigator said gas was poured throughout the house. Point of ignition was the front door. Full involvement in under 15 minutes.” 

“And that let you out?” 

Nodding, “Twelve people including the mayor swore I’d been in the diner for an hour.” 

“How long were you in jail?” 

“They said it was a week. They arrested her and took me up front for out-processing, so now she has a roof and I’m homeless. Sheriff came and talked to me, again with why. Why’n’t I say anything? Defend myself? Tell ‘em?”

I look at him hard; trying to make sure he gets it. “My mom tried to kill me. She meant me to die. To _burn_. And threw the blame at me. What’m I supposed to do with that? How’m I supposed to say those words?”  
\---------------------------------------------

Ten minutes of driving around aimlessly puts me in front of the town’s tiny diner. The local hot spot for gossip, I bet. Better than a bar anyway if what you need is a citizen’s personal history. Or pie. The door _moos_ when I walk in. Huh. I guess you get tired of hearing a bell after a while. The counter’s better for information so I head down to the far end, where the Flo look-alike is filling salt cellars. “Hey, honey. What can I getcha?” 

“Coffee, black. And pie.” 

“Any preference?” 

“Whatever’s your best.” Always ask their opinion – opens the floodgates. 

“Blackberry it is,” she says, hip-swaying down the counter.

“I saw the strangest thing today.” Straight in when she sets the wedge down and pours the coffee, ‘cause I don’t have time for subtle tonight. Or patience for it, ever. “A woman pulling a skeleton out of a dumpster. That a local custom?” 

“Oh, no. That must’ve been Lee. She’s our town eccentric – save the planet, recycle, pet rescue, respect the everything. She’s harmless.” 

Sounds pretty boring to me. Civic-minded, hardly rage-inducing. “Huh. Are there a _lot_ of skeletons lying around town?” 

“Nope. Brett was in here earlier bragging he threw those bones out and she was gonna have a hissy. I don’t know why that man has it in for her, but he rags on her every chance he gets.” 

“Just Brett?” 

“Now you mention it, she does seem to be the one they all pick on. I swear, some of these boys never got up past middle school mentally. Mind you, Lee’s a strange one herself.”

Progress. “How so?” 

“Well, she blows hot and cold. She’ll be your best friend for a while, then make with the cold shoulder. Like you offended Her Nibs and she can’t be bothered. We had a town football tournament four years ago. Even let her play quarterback. She didn’t hardly talk to anyone for about a month after.” 

“Why not?” 

“Who knows? Just walked around looking like she was sucking lemons. We figure it’s something to do with her mom.”

“People don’t like her mom?” 

She laughs, delighted to have a brand new audience, “Honey, her momma was six kinds of crazy. Talked to herself in public, spent thousands of dollars buying stuff for a husband who’d left years before, burnt down their house and told everyone Lee did it. Ended up killing herself. Stuff like that can run in a family.”

Great. I left Sam alone with a pudgy, middle-aged maybe crazy lady. I’ll go rescue him as soon as I finish my pie. It’s that good. 

Wait, I thought Lee moved around all the time. “How long has she lived here, Polly?” checking her nametag. Always know their name – makes ‘em love ya. And spill their guts.

“They came about 25 years ago. Lee would have been, let’s see, 12 or so. She left town after her momma… well, you know. Came back about 6 years ago, been here ever since. Hey, why you so interested in her?” small town gossip giving way to finally remembering that I’m a complete stranger.

“Oh, just wondering what kind of person rescues puppies _and_ dumpster dives for skeletons. Hey, can I get a couple pieces of this pie to go? It’s awesome. Thanks." Hey, woohoo, look over there! Shiny! Pay no attention to the man behind the… Whatever.

Start to call Sam while she’s packing up the pie, but realize I left the cell on the bedside table. I hope Sam doesn’t get ‘hot and cold shoulder’ed by the crazy woman he brought home. ‘Course, maybe that would cure him of wanting to help every stray he sees. Nah, never gonna happen. 

Drive (direct, this time) the three blocks back to the motel and open the door just as Sam snags Lee across the neck with his giant paw and slams her back onto the bed, standing up to get more crushing leverage.


	6. Chapter 6

“What?” She finally seems to remember she’s not alone, looking at me, then makes the jump into trust. She tells her story haltingly, and seems to have trouble getting a deep breath, especially around the fire. I understand.

She smiles at her mom’s coat, and I hope there might be a happy ending after all. But she gives me a perplexed frown and proves me wrong. I nudge her to go on and get a shock when she says _she_ got arrested for torching the house. Huh? She describes the questioning and finishes up hoarsely, “I couldn’t say it.” I’m starting to realize that she means it literally; that she was struck mute by her mother’s arson and accusations. 

I try a couple of times to get her attention, but she’s far away. By the empty look on her face, it’s not a good place. Hoping touch will work where sound fails, I start rubbing her arm, soothing her like I would a small child. Like Dean would; did. What else? Comforting words, even if we both know they’re maybe lies. “It’s gonna be okay. We can fix it. C’mon, Lee, come back. Talk to me. What happened then?”

Her utter stillness is unnerving. A couple more minutes pass the same slow way before she turns her head to look at her arm. Then me. Continues like no time has passed. Her sentences get shorter, choppier, as she edges nearer the worst part – proof that her mom set the fire. Wait, ‘they said’ a week? The sheriff’s right, why not defend… 

Holy fuck. She’s staring now and I get it, the pieces coalescing and incandescent in my brain. The fire’s point of ignition, Lee’s alibi, her mom having time to put on her _best coat_ while escaping from a BURNING BUILDING and being so sure that Lee was inside. I wonder how the Sheriff didn’t see it at the time, even as she’s confirming that her mother tried to murder her.

There’s no answer to her questions either, even less than I had one for Dean after Dad…there’s nothing I can say. All I can do is be here – present and supportive; and it seems like not nearly enough, ever. Maybe provide a distraction.

“So what did you do when they let you go?”

A wry smile, “Well, ‘let me go’ in the sense of ‘admitted me for observation.’ And I know why they did it; hell, I knew it then. Hadn’t spoken for a week, wouldn’t eat, refused to interact with anybody. Th’only way they got me to drink was promise t’go away. Couldn’t let me wander around like that - liability’s just too great.” 

“Or maybe they were sorry for how you’d been treated and worried about you?”

Amazing - she has Dean’s exact expression of denial that anyone would care about her welfare. Her eyes close, brows go down, mouth quirks in a grimace; all topped off with the disbelieving head shake. 

“Hospital worked. I said two words the first day. ‘Not you.’” I give her a questioning headshake. “Sheriff took me over to the medical center. Sat in the exam room with me, talking the whole time. Couldn’t tell you a word he said, but…he held onto my elbow all the while and his voice was…,” she raises her right hand parallel to the bed and floats it up and down, “like ocean swells.” Her eyes close in remembered pleasure and she relaxes completely with a beatific smile. “I didn’t have to think. I could just drift. It felt…safe.” Her hand lands with a soft thud as she opens her eyes. “Doctor came in. Same one from the jail, so ‘Not you.’ My voice all froggy and they both jumped. Sheriff was all, ‘Hey, great to hear ya. Glad you’re back. How’re ya feeling?’ Doctor kept coming - he had the balls to look offended.” 

She’s indignant and with good cause. “What did you do?” 

A genuine smile, huge and infectious. “I kicked him in ‘em.” A somewhat wicked chuckle, followed by, “I know I shouldn’t’ve, but…it was so satisfying. He’d been a dick and I was … having a bad day.” 

“Or week.” 

“Yeah. So now, Sheriff’s grabbing my elbow for a whole new reason, but I got what I wanted. The orderlies came and scooped Dr. Squeaky up and I didn’t see him again. 

“Not even at the trial?” 

And now she looks puzzled for a moment, then amused and a little schoolmarmish, “No, they let me go.” 

“ _Your mother’s_ trial.” 

The humor slides off her expression like it never existed, “Oh. There was no trial. She made bail.”

“What? How?” 

A shrug. “Solid citizen. No prior record. Not considered a flight risk. Which - kinda funny.” 

“Why?” 

“Detached garage. Car’s the only thing she owned didn’t burn. And, she played the ‘Mommy’ card. Said she wanted to ‘see her baby in the hospital on her birthday,’” finishing in a sarcastic mocking tone.

Already knowing the answer, I ask “Hers?” 

“Mine. Eighteenth,” in response to my unvoiced question. Wow, Dad’s looking better and better. 

“I still can’t believe they gave her bail after she tried to kill you.” 

“Nobody knew. I wasn’t talking, ‘member? And by the time I started up again,” she shrugs, “it didn’t seem to matter. She’d killed herself.”

“How long after that did you start talking?” 

“Day after. They needed decisions; wanted to know her wishes.” More staring into the past. “She wanted a teak coffin, with satin lining and a velvet pillow. Funeral mass, graveside service, get-together at the house after. Flowers, tons of flowers.” 

“Sounds nice.” And a whole lot more effort than I’d have made. 

A bitter derisive laugh as she meets my eyes again. “I had her cremated in a cardboard box. No mass, no service, no memorial. Donations to charity in lieu of flowers, please. Thank you for your sympathy.” She finally blinks, then looks away and back, and allows, “I might have been feeling a little vindictive.”

Again, the laugh comes bursting out of me. Dean should be here - he’d get a kick… Shit! as I remember why and how he left. I need more info. “Did your mom leave you anything?” 

Eyes narrow and head cocked to one side, “Why?” 

“Well, since she was cremated, it can’t be her spirit causing all this. Next most likely thing is a cursed object - something she bequeathed to you, maybe.” 

She scoffs, “Well, I got her entire estate - the house, its contents, the car.” 

“Was anything salvaged? Anything at all?” 

Shaking her head, “Not from the house. I sold the car to a guy two towns over.” 

“And he knew that your mother used it to…?” 

Cynically, “Heh-yeah. He paid extra. I leased the lot to a developer. He put up condos and we split the rents.” 

“Nothing else, no mementos?”

“No. It all burned. The only thing I have from her is…”

I feel the answer hit her by the trembling in her arm. See it in the sudden shock on her face as she closes her eyes and freezes. Wait out the inevitable breath holding until she feels steady enough to tell me. Keep up the arm rubbing all the while.

“That bitch.” It’s barely a whisper, but more venomous than if she’d screamed it. She opens her eyes, huge in her bloodless face, and the pain there makes me miss her gesture at first. “She gave me this in the hospital. Said it was her mother’s.” The plain gold band on her right ring finger looks innocent, but I’ve seen too much to trust appearances. 

I turn her hand over to see the rest of it. “Is there writing on the inside?” 

“I don’t know. She came, said, ‘Sorry. Forgive. Happy Birthday.’ Wanted me to swear never to take it off.” 

“Did you?” 

“No. But I never have.”

She closes her eyes in a long blink, then opens them and says, “You can have a psychotic break and burn the house down. You can feel remorse and take a drive in the garage. But this,” looking at the ring, “This took time. And planning. And hate.” 

“Wait a minute. We’re not sure it’s the ring.” 

“Well, then,” tugging it off, “Let’s see.” She checks the ring and then, quicker than I can warn her not to, thrusts it into my hand. “I think it says something. Can you read it?”

Dammit, why can’t she just obey? I asked ONE thing. I’m sick of this, and I’m gonna finish it. No more trusting to charms and pawns. And she doesn’t have a clue; just look at her moony eyes. What’s that? Oh, shit, the other one’s back - better hurry…“Hey, where you going?” 

The squeaky choking gasp she makes when I shove her into the mattress is so thrilling that I stand up to get a better angle to make her do it again. But first - “It says ‘Ingratus parvulus. Haud amicitia, haud amor, haud fides. Semper ira. -Malmamere.’ Suddenly my hand isn’t on her throat anymore, and I can’t breathe. I dimly see her push past the brother and out the door while I try to learn how to pull air in again.  
\---------------------------------------------

I see her right away this time, and mask my expression while I try to think of a way out. I hear the car pull up. Great. I go as soon as the doorknob turns - maybe I can get past Mean Dean, too. C’mon, c’mon, c’mon. Okay, now!

Ungh! There’s a white flash when my head clips the headboard. I grab his wrist but he’s **strong**. He’s saying something I can’t concentrate on through the pressure on my neck. Hey, use your stupid legs! I boot him in the balls and make for the door. Dean reaches out to grab and gets the same and I’m out and off down the street. I gotta get to the car. Shame I’m breathing through a straw. A coffee straw. Where the Hell are my keys? No way I can make it. I need to hide while I catch my breath.

Turn into the alley and try to think. First dumpster - too obvious. Second - same. Third - perfect. If I could go that far why wouldn’t I keep going? Maybe, I hope. Doesn’t matter now. Steer behind it and see the brick rushing up to meet the blackness and the roaring. And it’s not wrong that part of me hopes it’s permanent, right? I can’t take this anymore.


	7. Chapter 7

Crap. I shouldn’t have finished the pie. 

Although Sam seems to be having no trouble dealing with the crazy lady. Wait, what’s he saying? Latin, but that’s no spell I’ve ever heard. And he’s reading it off something, looks like a ring. I have a quick clear flash of the feel of cool metal when she grabbed my arm. White skin on either side of a gold band as she clutches her wrist. And now the hand she’s trying to pry his off her neck with is bare. Shit! Cursed object - all this time. And Sam’s getting more than the full effect.

“Sam, stop it!” He doesn’t but she does, with a double kick to the balls that folds him right in half and lets her spring off the bed. I reach out to pull her behind me ‘til I can fix Sam, but she tries to castrate me, too. I block it with my thigh but miss my grab when she flies by. 

“Sam!” He tilts his face my way, eyes clinched in pain. “Throw me the ring. Now!” He does and I shut the door on it - I don’t want it, I just need it away from him. Follow her trail down the street - hair clip, tissue, license - what is she doing? Closing in quick as she staggers into the alley; man, she’s out of shape. 

Car keys. 

Wait, she had CAR KEYS in her bra? “Hey, wait!’ but she ducks behind a dumpster – only she’s not ducking. She drops to her knees and falls into the building face first, not even trying to catch herself. I reach her as she’s sliding down toward a pile of trash left over from the Clinton administration, by the smell. Pull her back against me and realize that the wheezing whistle I hear is her trying to breathe. _Sampawneckslam_. Fuck! He half crushed her and now she’s suffocating. Let her weight carry us down until I’m on the ground, propped up against the dumpster.

I try a couple of positions looking for one that will keep her alive until an ambulance gets here. Call 911. Phone... still on the nightstand. Shitdamnfuck! 

“Dean!” 

Thank God. “In the alley!” He rounds the corner and almost growls when he sees her. “No, Sam! Stop!” Years of older brother orders pay off. He’s breathing hard and angry, but still five feet away. Standing a little hunched, his thumb pressed into the crease at the top of his thigh, trying to redirect the discomfort. Not sure he’d make the call - he’s got ‘it’ now and I need an ambulance before I can work on making him think his way out from under it. “Gimme your cell.” 

“What?” 

“Damnit, Sammy, just do it!” 

I have her settled now; sideways across my outstretched legs, my arm under hers and around her back, her forehead against my cheek holding her throat as straight and open as it can be. I can feel her back muscles strain to pull in each breath, but she doesn’t sound two seconds from asphyxia anymore. 

Make the call and look up to find Sam looming, scowling, plotting. Shit. “Sam.” Glaring. “Sam!” 

“What?!” I’ve seen goblins less eager to get to their dinner.

“Stop it. We gotta hurry. Go back to the room-” 

“What? No! I’m gonna-” 

“SAM!! Knock it off!” Try logic. “Why are you mad?” 

“Are you kidding? She took it off, the one thing I…” he breaks off, confused. 

“Yeah. Not the nut smashing? Huh. Cursed object, Sam. You’re affected. Think about it – it’s the curse making you angry. Logic’ll break its hold.” His expression shifts from anger to worry and discomfort as he works it through. 

“Shit.” And now guilt. 

“Not your fault, Sam, and we don’t have time for this. Get back to the room. Throw all your stuff in the trunk and get lost for a few hours.” 

“Why?” 

“If the bruise comes up a giant handprint, they’re gonna start looking. Grab her shoes, too. And my phone. And the ring – but don’t touch it!” He throws me a disgusted look that I probably deserve. “No, wait. Put it in something and cover it in salt. Or holy water. Don’t lose it. Call me in three hours. Go, Sam!”

He’s only gone two steps when I realize something. “Sam! Grab her crap from the sidewalk and bring it here.” He’s back with it in a flash – at least he’s shaken off the curse. “Thanks. Now get outta here.” It’s a struggle to keep her neck straight while I pack stuff back into her bra, but I get it done. When the ambulance pulls up just as I finish, she’s still breathing. Now for the fun part – the hospital and the cops.


	8. Chapter 8

That’s _it_. I’m putting her in protective custody. She’ll be safer, and Lord knows the crime rate’ll plummet. And unconstitutional, my ass. At this rate she’ll be dead ‘fore she hits 40. Locked up’s gotta be better than six feet under.

There’s a thrum of conversation from her room and I think about coming back later. The slap decides for me and I step into the doorway ready for trouble. She’s hitting her right hand with her left forefinger. Oh, right. I forgot her method of getting attention and making emphatic statements. “Hey!”

She whips around, startled, then smiles and mouths, “Hey,” back. The young guy looks at me, tense. Everybody has a guilty conscience when the sheriff shows up. But just in case, “Is he bothering you, Lee?” as I walk up to her bedside. Quizzical frown, then understanding, a head shake, and a hand flap at the guy, with a silent, “He’s fine.”

Damn, it looks like someone took a cheese grater to her cheek. Right before they whacked her with a rolling pin, by the looks of the goose egg she’s sporting. The band of bruising on her neck is too familiar, sad to say.

“What’s up, then?” 

A poke at her collarbone, then both fists shaking and a snarl. Missed the lip reading, though. Points at him, slash of fingers across her throat, double tap on her temple, then back to the collarbone. It hits me. “Oh. You’re frustrated ‘cause he can’t understand you?” A nod, emphatic. “He just doesn’t have our practice. Here, this’ll help,” handing over the whiteboard and marker I brought.

She snatches it and scrawls. I laugh to see she’s written _you are a god!_

“Nope, just a mortal. ‘Sides, knowin’ you, I’d be one with a cat head or goat’s tail or like that.” She tries to smile innocently, but I’ve known her too long. “How ‘bout you introduce me to your visitor?” She actually opens up and draws breath before giving me the friendly glare and a silent, but clearly sarcastic, “Ha ha,” then waves between us to prompt self-service.

“Mike Henley,” holding out my hand.

“Sam Wexler, hi,” standing to lean over her and shake it. Damn, he’s a big guy. 

“Haven’t seen you around town, Sam.” 

“Um, yeah. I just got in a couple days ago.” 

“How do you guys know each other?” Lee’s writing furiously enough that we stop talking to watch.

     _helped me get skeleton from dumpster. Brett’s a dick – arrest him?_

I snort. “Lee, if that was illegal, the whole firm’d be in jail.” Seeing Sam’s look, “Brett’s a lawyer. And a dick. Just like his old man. I’m guessing he’s the reason you were reported dumpster diving again, Lee?” She bites her lip and nods. Exasperated, “You gotta stop that. You know Brett’s trying to get you in trouble. Why’n’t you call me?”

     _did - you were out on a call_

“And you couldn’t wait. You’re worse than a six year old.”

     _I was bored_

“I rest my case.” 

Big grin and _whatever. made new friends_

“Friends, plural?” 

“My brother’s getting coffee,” Sam offers.

“Lee, you need to take this seriously. Brett could make a lot of trouble…” I trail off since she’s paying me no mind, scribbling again.

     _shouldn't be a problem anymore_

Showing me, then Sam. He gets the brows up/head tilt/silent “right?” bonus. He’s startled and a little worried, but slowly nods agreement with a, “Yeah, it should stop now.”

“You’re not a hit man, are ya, Sam? ‘Cause that’s about what it’s gonna take to get Brett off her back.” His hesitation has me making a mental note to run his name through the system later.

     _tell him_

“Tell me what?” 

When Sam hesitates, she makes a quick addition.

     _tell him!!_

This oughta be good. 

“She was under a curse, but we’re gonna fix it.” He looks defiant, expecting disbelief. He gets it. 

“Riiigght. And you know how to do this because…why, exactly? I mean, you know Lee isn’t some gullible rich old lady, right?”

     _HEY!_

“Who’d want to curse her, anyway?” 

“Her mom.” 

“Oh, okay. Yeah. That I can believe.” All too easily, actually.

     _what?_

“Well, after she tried to kill you, why not?” Lee doesn’t write anything, but I see the question on her suddenly pale face. “Dad told me when I was elected Sheriff. Said I needed to know – to explain why you act…odd sometimes.”

She still looks shocked. Let’s try something. “Hey, now that you know I know, there’s something I’ve always wondered.”

     _?_

“Your mom thought you were in your room, right? So how’d you get out?” She snorts softly, then gets to work on the board. Sam and I watch, exchanging the occasional awkward glance.

     _she never came in my room. Just sat outside and talked. It got old, so I got an escape ladder. In a box - bolts to the floor? She’d start going on & I’d leave. You can only hear that crap so many times, ya know? So stupid…I did it to avoid boredom. Never thought it’d actually save my life._

“Lucky.”

     _yeah, lucky she didn’t check_

“What’s with the curse, though?” 

“She put it on Lee’s ring, so when it touches someone, they’re affected,” Sam matter-of-factly says. Like that’s even a little bit normal. 

“Oo-kay, that’s…evil. How are you gonna stop it?” 

“We destroy the ring. We need Lee there, so it’ll have to wait ‘til she’s out of here. Then we get people to think about why they’re mad at her. That should snap them out of it.” 

“Well, if that’s all it takes, how has this worked for so long? Brett’s been harassing her since the day she moved back here.” 

“People don’t think. They like someone or they don‘t, and usually never stop to wonder why.”

I’ve seen enough stupid feuds to know that that’s true enough. “And if they touch the ring again?” 

“They get another dose, so the curse would keep going, or get even stronger.” 

“No offence, Lee, but - your mom was a _bitch _.” Not just crazy, like we thought. Her eye roll probably registered on a Richter scale somewhere.__

     _yeah, film at 11_

I snort and bump her shoulder with my fist. “You are such a dork. I‘ll see ya later.”

     _?_

“I’m going to see Brett. Start de-cursing him. He’s a slow learner, s’gonna need all the head start he can get.”

     _thanks_

She looks abashed, embarrassed. “Dork. Hey, look on the bright side - no more _eau de dumpster_ for you.” Her smile sticks with me as I head out into the hallway.  
\---------------------------------------------------------------

By the time Dean calls with the all clear, she’s set up in her own room. I stay while he goes on a coffee run. “Lee, I’m sorry…” I stop in the face of her whirling hands. Is that sign language? “Look, I just want to tell you how sor..” The crack of the slap shuts me up. She points at me, then whips her fingers across her throat before hitting the pale strip on her finger where the ring used to be. Movement in the door sidelines my confusion, and the uniform there makes me forget it completely. Shit!

Luckily, he’s here for her, not me. He studies her injuries, easily translates her jazz hand gestures and forks over a whiteboard. She’s really fast with it, although erasing it with her whole forearm is clearly cheating. Thank god she didn’t bring up the spirit; most law enforcement won’t understand that sort of thing. Naturally, ten seconds later, she’s putting me on the spot to tell him about the curse. Which he’s skeptical about until her mom is mentioned. Nobody is supposed to know what she tried to do to Lee, but apparently there are no secrets in small Southern towns. He’s even taking on the dickhead’s reeducation, which is handy. Once Brett turns around, the rest of the town should follow.

“Lee? What did the Sheriff mean about you ‘having practice?’ Has something like this happened before?”

She nods.

“About four years ago, right?” Dean asks, strolling in a suspicious 5 seconds after the Sheriff leaves. Lee looks agape at him, while he goes on, “Town football game?”

She nods again, slowly, flabbergasted.

“Polly at the diner said you acted all stuck-uppity. What was the damage?”

She points to her head, eyebrows raised in a question.

“Concussion?” Dean guesses.

A nod, a point at her side, then three fingers raised.

“Broken ribs?”

Another nod, then a gesture to her throat. 

“Choked.” Now she’s writing

     _clotheslined_

“Brett?” There’s that bar fight voice again.

Nod. 

“Nice. I’m gonna go talk to him.” And by ‘talk’ he means ‘pound Brett’s face into the dirt.’

“Too late, Dean. The Sheriff’s already on his way.” 

“You’re no fun, Sam.” 

“Which is why I’m always available to break _you_ out, Dean.” 

“Whatever, Granny.” I’m surprised his eye roll doesn’t unhinge something.

     _what did the ring say?_

“Well, the Latin’s pretty mangled, but as near as we can tell, it’s supposed to say, “Ungrateful child - no friends, no lover, no trust. Always anger. –Malmamere”

     _what’s malmamare?_

“Never heard of it.” Dean shrugs one shoulder and shakes his head.

     _why would she do that?_

“Lee, she was crazy. You know how I know that? Polly at the diner said so. The Sheriff thinks so. Both of the Sheriffs think so. And she tried…To…Kill…You. She was _crazy_. It had nothing to do with you, except you got in the way of it.”

“Dean’s right, Lee. It’s like having lightning hit your house. Nothing you did caused it.”

     _so now what?_

“You get out of here tomorrow, we destroy the ring, we leave, and you go back to your life, only with people acting normal from now on.

    _why wasn’t sheriff affected? ___

“Well..he knew. He didn’t know what he knew, exactly, but he knew something. And cops are always re-assessing any situation; that would keep it from hitting him.”

“And I think he likes you.” 

“Dean!” My turn for an eye roll.

“What? I can’t have an opinion?” Yeah, that’s Dean. So sensitive to nuance. Sad part is I’m pretty sure he’s right. Again.

“Just how long were you listening at the door? And, _where’s_ my coffee?”

“Hm? Oh, yeah. I drank it. I thought that guy was never gonna leave.”

It turns out you can laugh (hoarsely) even if you can’t talk.

The end


End file.
